lunastarhawk

[lunastarhawk]

[lunastarhawk]

long haired sebastian on my mind.... oughhh

[lunastarhawk]

It's funny how a silly fictional character can come into your life and then take over your entire brain chemistry

[lunastarhawk]

ASSAN WANTS KISSES TOO!!! 😚🥰🥰

[lunastarhawk]

title: among the wreckage pairing: lucanis dellamorte x kione “rook” mercar x spite rating: teen words: 320 words prompt: fade

Once he's out of his room, out of the kitchen, and staring out into the wide, endless expanse of the Fade, Lucanis realizes he's an idiot.

[ read on ao3 ]

[lunastarhawk]

𝔻𝔸 𝕂𝕚𝕤𝕤 𝕎𝕖𝕖𝕜 - 𝔻𝕒𝕪 𝕋𝕙𝕣𝕖𝕖 - 𝔽𝕒𝕕𝕖

Prisoners

𝘌𝘷𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘔𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘢𝘳 𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘊𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵: 611 𝘛𝘢𝘨𝘴: 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘍𝘢𝘥𝘦, 𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘵, 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧, 𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘺

The Prison is a prisoner itself.

Evariste feels it as instantly, as certainly, as he does his own isolation. The Prison is of the Fade, with the Fade’s essential impulse to shape itself from desire…but it’s a gaunt fucking thing. Hobbled, boxed, and blinded. Solas has carved this place from the wellspring of all spirit energy, and conditioned it to feed only on Regret.

It’s impressive, in a horrible way. The hallmark of an authentic Solas project. 

His mind fractures when he’s still, so Evariste spends most of his captivity in motion. He never finds himself tired, hungry, or thirsty. The body would distract from the mind, he reasons, leaving the Prison fewer morsels of Regret to forage.

Evariste senses the Prison watching him. Its gaze is as meager and unhopeful as the light that surrounds and follows him into every corner. It gets lively when he suffers, though. As he takes the broken steps two at a time, again and again, screaming the names of those he hopes to find at the top. As he never finds them. As he finds them shattered. As he is.

In a moment of unguarded thought, the Prison wriggles its intent around Evariste’s memories of the Lighthouse, grasping them hungrily. The deprivation of his will has made it vicious.

Tableaus of flotsam begin to appear. A pair of clogs tucked behind plants. A bookshelf neatly filled with wisdom and watchful skulls. An office overgrown with work, wallpapered in notes. A cozy chair littered with wood shavings. The history of an entire people, and the tools to crack it. Treasures burning golden with purpose. Empty cups and dishes, and an urn…percolating coffee.

At this last torture, Evariste loses control. 

Fuck this.

He palms chunks of stone and hurls them at the precious nothings. Glass shatters in half-time, and wood erupts into slow splinters. Feathers whisper out of torn upholstery. One rock at a time, Evariste obliterates the twirling reminders of his loss. The tableaus lose their columnar orbits but none of their taunting, as the fragments form a vast new ballet, with Evariste at its center. 

Arms and legs wrapped around the coffee urn, Evariste demands an evocation it can’t provide. A hand on his arm. Breath against his face. It smells like someone’s idea of coffee, poorly described. 

The urn can’t sympathize with his sweet tooth, or indulge it. The broken cups revolving among the wreckage have no fucking clue what they weren’t. They don’t tell the story of chocolate, licked and hummed down to the last sip. The broken dishes don’t map the constellations of cinnamon and sugar scattered between two saucers–two worlds joined by such simple magic. 

He doesn’t blame the place. They’re in this together, after all. His compassion slips through the Prison’s cracks, showing the love it takes to lift when it’s so much simpler to drop. 

Love, Evariste bargains with it, lets Regret grow. Little clusters that sprout with time, calorie-rich. He’s only asking to graze his teeth against the rind.

Bribe me, he begs. I can take it.

The Prison considers it, considers the reflection of itself it finds in Evariste, clutching the urn to his cheek.

This is the best it can do: the charged air between two people, who have been making space for each other in their lives, their bodies aching to close the distance. And never getting there. Forever one breath from whole.  The Prison pushes it toward Evariste, a crust with a bit of white they can share. He devours it. Nourished through sheer will by a kiss that almost happens. An almost that will stretch as long as he can bear it.

[lunastarhawk]

Going on a tiny holiday, but not without leaving you with a lovely little Julian!

[lunastarhawk]

Inquisitor Lavellan

[lunastarhawk]

Me: Haven't found any real happiness in writing, reading, gaming, music, anything that I love, for weeks. Maybe months, on and off. Like I'm just going through the motions.

Also me: Can't be depression though, I don't even feel sad I just cry sometimes for no reason.

That little voice in the back of my mind: I dunno man maybe it might-

Me and my denial demon: Absolutely not.

[lunastarhawk]

Small Wins

Anders x Hawke - set during Act 3 of DA2

A little fic as a prompt fill for Dragon Age Kiss Week 25. Also on AO3.

Day 7 - Celebration

This isn't what I thought I'd be writing when I opened ellipsus this morning, but here we are. My first and only entry to DA Kiss Week. It's bittersweet, but I think it just about fulfills the 'celebration' prompt :)

I offer Love Can Only Heal by the mighty Myles Kennedy as an accompaniment.

Teale Hawke never knew quite what to expect these days when she returned home from a night mission for which Anders hadn’t accompanied her. It depended somewhat on the timing of the mission. Sometimes she’d kiss him goodnight and return in the early hours to find him sleeping soundly. Sometimes she’d slip out of bed after midnight when he was sleeping, and return after dawn to find him awake. Or sometimes, whether she returned at night or in the morning, he’d be gone; physically, if he'd returned to the clinic or to pin up his manifesto across the city. Or, though physically here, Anders would be gone.

Now, as the dawn light began to creep over Kirkwall, Teale silently pushed open the door to her home. She listened, steeling herself for the sound of Anders muttering to himself or pacing the floorboards; she desperately, futilely, hoped she might hear him whistling or talking to the cats. But there was silence.

She breathed a resigned, sad sigh as the front door closed with a quiet click behind her. He’d gone, then.

The day before hadn’t been a good day. Anders had been far from himself. Like a man possessed — which he was, truth be told — he’d spent much of the day furiously scribbling pages and pages of copies of his new manifesto, papers piled high and scattered across the floor. Disheveled and unkempt, snapping at her when she suggested he should eat something, he’d been a hair’s breadth away from Justice taking over completely. He hadn’t left milk out for the cats.

He’d been something more of himself by the time night fell and Teale persuaded him to go to bed. She’d decided not to take him with her when she’d left on her mission to Lowtown; it was simple enough to threaten a gang that had been picking on merchants, and she could do so on her own. She wasn’t entirely sure she trusted Anders at that point.

She was at a loss about what to do. What could she do but keep Anders safe? From himself as much as anyone else. At least as much as he’d let her.

She was losing him, she knew. Piece by piece.

But as she stepped through the door into the living quarters, she saw that the fire had been lit. Across the room, the door to the kitchen stood ajar, and the warm glow of a fire within cast its dancing light. She unbuckled the belt and baldric of her sword and pulled it over her head, laying it on the table, not taking her eyes from the kitchen door.

Another step into the room, and she heard a noise; the quiet clatter of cups being set on the kitchen table. And… whistling. A tune they’d danced to at The Hanged Man not so long ago.

Cautiously, hopefully, she crossed the room. Her eyes flitted to the desk. Papers were stacked neatly, a quill pen laying beside the closed ink well. Not messily scattered with blotches of ink as they were often left when Anders was in a frenzy of writing.

“Anders?”

She held her breath as she waited for the answer to her call.  A few seconds later, the door opened enough that Anders could poke his head through.

“Home already?” He gestured to the couch. “Sit down, I’ll just be a minute.”

He disappeared before Teale could properly see his eyes or expression; she didn’t sit, but continued to the kitchen door. As she pushed it open, the cat lapping at a bowl of milk by the hearth looked up at her and then, entirely disinterested, turned back to its milk.

Anders lifted a kettle from the stove, and as he turned back to the table in the centre of the kitchen, his eyes met hers, warm and amber and bright.

“I’m just making tea. Would you like some, my love?”

Her breath hitched, caught in her throat. So relieved that tears burned the backs of her eyes, Teale nodded and could only smile.

Anders poured the tea. His honey-blonde hair shone like spun gold in the light of the fire behind him. He’d pulled it back into a half-ponytail, tied with the thin bracelet of twisted red wool that he’d made for Teale but which she didn’t wear with her armour in case it would be frayed by the metal chain of her sleeve. He hadn’t combed his hair more than pull his fingers through it, but that was more than he’d done of late. It wasn’t disheveled, the knot of the bracelet was tight. His clothes were clean.

His smile… oh, his smile. His smile. Warm, pleased to see her. It was all she could do not to throw herself at him and kiss him.

“Look at this,” he said. His voice was bright, his cadence breezy, his. He gestured to a small pot on the table. “The mint that I’d left on the windowsill? There were enough leaves to make a nice mint tea out of it.” He set his hands on his hips, his expression dropping for a moment, eyebrows sloping. “I’d neglected it. But it thrived anyway.” His smile returned. “The chamomile’s coming along nicely, too. I needed a win, and here it is. Only a small win…” He pinched his thumb and forefinger together with an inch of space between them, “but a win nonetheless.”

His expression then was one of pride, of joy.

“It smells lovely,” Teale said, smiling at him. She didn’t like mint, but she was hardly going to tell him that.

She stepped up to Anders and slipped her arms around his waist. She was very slightly taller than him, and now she could look closely into his eyes, and see nothing there but him. Firelight moved across his features in a dance of light and shadow.

The arms that held her were warm, knew the place on the small of her back where she liked him to rest his hands; his. He nudged her temple with his nose, and then kissed her cheek. His lips moved against her skin as he murmured,

“I’m sorry.”

“The only thing you need to be sorry for is not replacing the milk when you finished it the other day,” she quipped, her smile lifting her cheek against Anders’ lips.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

She leaned back, looked once more into his eyes, brushed back some wayward strands of hair and ran the back of her finger down his jaw, settling on his lips so he could kiss it and playfully take it into his mouth.

“Anyway, it was the cats,” he said, his voice muffled as his lips and tongue moved around Teale’s finger. “Not my fault.”

She laughed, pulled her finger back and playfully poked his chest. “Sit down. I’ll go take my armour off and join you.”

“Alright. Don’t be long.”

Anders sat, smiled up at her and blew her a kiss; she felt her cheeks warm as if his kiss had landed there.

She almost didn’t want to leave, afraid that when she returned, Anders wouldn’t be himself anymore. She glanced about; at the cat stretching beside its empty dish, the kettle on the stove and cups on the table, Anders and his tidy golden hair, a tiny smile of wonder curving his lips as he brushed the leaves of the mint in the little pot.

Teale bent, and with one hand on Anders’ shoulder she kissed the base of his neck, burying her nose under his hair and her lips against the warmth of his skin. She breathed in the scent of mint and chamomile overlaying the fresh smell of soap. When Anders turned to look up at her, adoration in his eyes and curve of lips, she gently cupped his face with her hands, pressed a kiss to his forehead, lingered there, closed her eyes.

The elation of this moment, drinking tea with Anders — Anders — was no less than a victory celebration with everyone at the tavern after slaying a dragon.

If this was all she had of him today, she’d take this small win.

[lunastarhawk]

Power couple then and now.

[lunastarhawk]

Secret 7th poll option...

My annual return to World of Warcraft.

Heh. The original Starhawk. Resto shaman, my raiding main from Burning Crusade to Cataclysm, originator of the username I've used in some form in almost every online presence ever since *cough* 2007.

Bestest beast mastery hunter forever and her spirit bird, bringing it all the way back from 2004.

hehe. Noice.

The baby of the bunch, est. 2024.

I'm sure Julian would approve of an outlaw rogue iteration of his girlfriend.

One of the idle expressions actually is on point for Theia.

[lunastarhawk]

Made a companion piece… It has been a while since I was this into my own OC.

[lunastarhawk]

I heard we had to celebrate a certain doctor today!